


All This and Heaven Too

by vodkaanddebauchery



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts In Love, M/M, Museums, Phil Coulson is a history nerd, Slow Build, Some Canon Compliancies, rampant 40s slang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaanddebauchery/pseuds/vodkaanddebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t really remember his name. Sometimes he thinks it could have been James, other times he thinks the word Bucky might be significant, occasionally he gets a niggling feeling that he might have been called something else entirely, because occasionally words in a different language will rise up into his consciousness like ash from a fire. </p>
<p>When you’ve been dead for as long as he has, you have a lot of time to think about things like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This and Heaven Too

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write AUs but then I saw the prompt "ghosts in love" and ran with it.  
> Eventually, it grew legs, picked me up, and started running with me instead. Somewhere along the lines I started revisiting my pretty intense Second World War feelings (hello, former major!) and it might have gotten out of hand.  
> I am not a native Russian speaker, so I apologize now for any butchering of the language. This is a WIP and for that I also apologize for that because I am the worst with WIPs. 
> 
> Thank you to my dear J for being my one good eye, as it were, and to A for screeching about the films and Steve and Bucky's character developments with me.  
> And as always, thank you for reading. I love every single comment and kudos you leave.

He doesn’t really remember his name. Sometimes he thinks it could have been James, other times he thinks the word Bucky might be significant, occasionally he gets a niggling feeling that he might have been called something else entirely, because occasionally words in a different language will rise up into his consciousness like ash from a fire. 

When you’ve been dead for as long as he has, you have a lot of time to think about things like that. 

He can’t remember how he died, either, but that one he’s less concerned with. Most days he feels very much alive, thank you, until he wants to go make a cup of coffee and remembers, _oh yeah_.

The digs? Not his first choice, but at least they’re better than mouldering away in some cemetery somewhere. He’s never actually met a cemetery haunt but imagines they’re pretty boring - rattling the chains, sighing dramatically over the dates on a tombstone, getting into arguments with your family or spouse for eternity. Being here in the museum means he’ll never get bored. They’re interesting, the exhibits. For instance, he’s pretty sure he never knew anything about the nesting habits of ground-dwelling dinosaurs in life, or the mineral content of Californian serpentine, but now he does. The museum is big, displays go in and out and there’s so much secreted away in the archives, so he’s always learning. 

And there are always people to watch. He likes watching the first crowds that trickle in not long after the museum opens - the school tours, the uniformed kids. Occasionally one will stare at him like they can see him on his usual people-watching perch on top of a display case - he’ll wink and raise a finger to his lips and they’ll bolt back to join their group, wide-eyed. It makes him laugh.  
He likes watching the older students, too, sometimes coming in with sketchpads and tablet computers. He likes watching young families, and senior citizens who will exclaim over one display over another, misting over with memories at something they see from their childhood.

Occasionally he’ll get jealous of their easy nostalgia, jealous of their blood and nerves and voices, and the lights in whatever corner he’s occupying will flicker and dim momentarily. Usually after these episodes, he moves on to the next hall and distracts himself reading display cards or sounding out the Latin names of South American birds, taxidermied in mid-flight. 

He hasn’t visited all of the halls or the archives but knows he’s not the only one here when the lights are off and doors locked in the wee morning hours. It scared the hell out of him late one night, admiring the richly-coloured baubles in the Ancient Egypt exhibit, to hear a low and consistent droning emanating from one of the sarcophagi.  
After he’d recovered himself he reached through the glass, giving the alabaster a gentle rap. “Someone in there?” 

The quiet groaning stopped and an angry litany in the strangest language he’d ever heard began. James - Bucky - whatever he felt his name was on a given day high-tailed it out of there and gave that particular hall wide berth for some weeks until his neighbors were more inclined to feel kindly toward him.

Overall, cranky mummies and jealous fits aside, he doesn’t mind being dead all that much. Not that he has much living memory to go on and compare this current post-flesh experience to, but it’s quiet. He can learn a lot, doesn’t have to worry about flu season, and he doesn’t have to talk to anyone he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t realize how lonely this makes him until the new display comes in the American History hall.

 

~**~

The installation goes in on a Saturday - or a Sunday, he can’t be certain, dates are muzzy. It might be sometime in April, he thinks, because the sun is shining more and more on the articulated dinosaur skeleton in the main entrance hall. He doesn’t feel things like external cold or heat any more, so that makes it a little hard to gauge the weather. Not like he goes outside all that often. 

After closing hours, the maintenance crew and curators seem to be in more of a kerfuffle than usual. The man who runs the American History branch, has been running it for as long as he can remember (admittedly, that varies from day to day) seems especially antsy. He wears a crisp suit - more academic than fancy, and there’s a badge on his lapel that reads _P. Coulson, Assistant Director, Museum of American History_. P. Coulson talks to someone on a two-way radio, practically wringing his hands in anticipation. 

James-Bucky-something-foreign-he-can’t-remember leans back against the display of early American flags and watches as several crates are wheeled in, and the curators set upon them, opening them with a reserved sort of frenzy while P. Coulson’s eyes dart back and forth from a dossier, where he’s making careful tic marks in a column.  
The whole atmosphere reminds him of Christmas morning. In detail, not in practice. He muses that he might have liked the holidays when he was alive, because he feels less cold than usual when the holiday decorations are brought out, festooning the halls. 

The case’s contents are a little mystifying when they’re all unpacked. Bucky shrugs them off, thinking about writing this off as a bust and visiting the Greco-Roman hall when he overhears Coulson on his two-way.  
“Ten out of ten cases - yes, sir, the contents appear to be all one piece, so to speak. No sir. We’re working on that, sir.” A curator with dark hair and a navy blouse hands him what appears to be the packing list before turning back to bark instructions at the lighting crew, and Bucky-James-he-doesn’t-know catches a glimpse of words like “Second World War” and “European Theater” before they’re shuffled to the back of his stack of papers.

He doesn’t know what makes him decide to stay, because he finds the Greco-Roman relics a hoot, those pornographic potteries never fail to cheer him up, but he stays anyway. The hall darkens steadily as the group of workers, some with gloves, some without, introduce the artifacts to their empty cases and adjust them this way and that, testing the display lights, stepping back to see the overall effect. 

It takes a few hours, but when all is said and done, there is an impressive display of World War II artifacts grouped tastefully together, arranged for maximum historical context, not aesthetic appeal. The group working falls silent in appreciation, until a voice from right beside Bucky barks, “Don’t start getting misty-eyed on me now, Coulson. I can tell you’re going to.”

Bucky-not-Bucky and the rest of the group jump to attention, because the museum’s director is standing behind them all, casting a critical eye - singular, the other is covered by a dark patch - on the display. 

“Director Fury,” Coulson says, striding up and shaking the man’s hand. “I’m saving the waterworks for tomorrow at the formal ceremony, when you’re going to thank the Starks for their contribution and me for my dedication and my own generous contribution -”

“Fat chance,” Director Fury says, but he’s smirking. “One set of playing cards is hardly generous -”

“They’re trading cards, not playing cards, and the market prices on eBay would suggest otherwise,” Coulson says, dry as anything. “I’m expecting a scotch from you for every year it took me to track down the complete set.” 

“I might as well buy you an entire case and be done with it,” Fury says offhandedly, stepping closer to scrutinize how a stack of curling papers in a display case, what appear to be maps of European terrain, are arranged and how well they read. 

“I’m partial to 18 years aged, Sir,” Coulson says, serious as anything, “but I’ll take a 15 if I must.” 

“A case of scotch and one formal recognition for you being the biggest geek on staff, and that’s saying something,” says Fury. He claps Coulson on the shoulder. “In all seriousness, thank you. And thanks to the rest of you,” he says to the room at large, to the men and women staying after hours to pull this display together. “This wouldn’t have been possible without your dedication - but I was planning on saying that at the formal unveiling tomorrow, so for the sake of not spoiling the surprise, thank you. The Institute is lucky to have a team as dedicated as you are.” 

That’s met with impromptu applause and handshakes all around, and then the curators and workers have to step up and ooh and ahh over the new display in the cases. They take so long milling about and chatting about the contents that it’s well after 10 when they finally file out, Coulson aiming one last fond look at the case when he thinks no one is looking, before they shut the lights off behind them.  
After that, he’s able to shuffle up to the case and browse the new items and their display cards. Shiny metal plaques on the display catch his attention - **This Display Generously Furnished by the Stark Foundation for Public Education** , says the largest line of print, followed by **The Institute is indebted to the National Archive, the National Army Museum, The Stark Science Archives, and the American Military History Foundation for their contributions** , and then, sure enough, in the list of private contributors, he can see **Phil Coulson** toward the top of the list. 

The display is unlike any war relics he’s seen so far. He’s a little rusty on his American history, apart from what he’s learned within these walls, can’t remember much of schooling. He can safely say he’s either never heard of this particular focus, though, because _Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos: Science, Media, and Technology in Wartime America_ is absolutely beyond him. He thinks. He can’t be certain if he’s ever heard of it before.

There are deactivated grenades that look weirdly futuristic, flak helmets, maps, weapons which also look weirdly futuristic, a mess kit, strange medical equipment, more personal artifacts like documents both official and unofficial, grainy black and white photos of people he’s never seen, clothing, an old-fashioned bowler hat. There’s an entire case devoted to propaganda of these Howling Commandos, fading posters and those trading cards that Coulson’s getting an entire case of scotch for. They’re all of some shmuck posing in a uniform that probably was breaking-edge back in the 40s, now, it’s just ridiculous - probably the Steve Rogers who’s on the display title, standing with a shit-eating smile on his face and a hand raised in salute. He tries not to laugh. 

Overall: Interesting, yes, but he’s not overwhelmingly impressed. Tomorrow, he’ll watch the formal ceremony, and go back to his usual haunts, because this is nothing he can’t live without. 

He turns to leave the hall and go to hang out in the Greco-Roman wing, after all, when the figure standing in the entryway stops him in his tracks. For a second he thinks maybe it’s the Director, or Coulson come to check on one last thing, but then a male voice asks, “Can you see me?” and he thinks he might drop of shock, if he were so corporeally inclined. 

“Yeah, yeah I can - can you see _me_?” he asks.

The figure steps forward into the dimmed display lights, and oh God, he recognizes him immediately as the shmuck in the propaganda - he’s not wearing the spangly costume, but he can tell from the breadth of his shoulders and the strong shape of the jaw that this must be him.

That strong jaw is currently working up and down in earnest shock. “I didn’t think - I thought I wasn’t going to be able to talk to anyone again - I didn’t imagine - I’m not imagining you, am I?” he asks, slightly bewildered at that last, and James-his-name-might-be-James feels himself laugh for the first time in a long time. He doesn’t think he’s laughed since the creationist homeschooling mom had to drag her kids through the dinosaur hall to leave the building in a huff. 

“You’re not imagining me,” he says, grinning and stepping up. He offers his hand. “And I hope to hell I’m not imagining you.” 

“You’d be a very welcome hallucination if you were a figment of my imagination,” is the earnest reply. He’s never touched another ghost before; it’s chilly and there’s something clingy and static, like cobwebs clinging to their palms when they shake hands. It takes him a little by surprise: He can’t remember touching anyone like this, didn’t even think of trying. 

“I’m Steve Rogers.” The man nods sheepishly at the display case. “That’s - yeah, that’s all my mess, I never thought I’d see it all lit up like this.” 

“Gotta say, Steve, I like you better in this getup than the blue and white,” What-is-his-name-really can’t help but say, smirking a little. But he means it honestly: Steve Rogers out of the spangles is just a bit taller than he is himself, with wide shoulders, golden hair, startlingly blue eyes, and an aw-shucks smile that doesn’t seem contrived at all. His figure is very neat and trim indeed in one of those old-timey army uniforms belted at the waist, though he doesn’t wear or carry one of the officer’s hats. 

“The gear wasn’t too bad,” Steve says, but there’s a hint of self-deprecation in his smile. “Made using the bathroom an ordeal, but that was the worst of it. Still, you’re right, I can say I’m glad I’m not - manifested - in it...what did you say your name was?” 

He starts a little. “I didn’t.” Steve’s brow furrows, questioning, and he explains, “I can’t remember mine.”  
The expression Steve makes all of a sudden - shock, sympathy, genuine concern for a spirit he’s met not ten minutes ago - socks him in what would be the gut if he were still alive. He’s a little surprised at how much it hurts, and realizes, _Damn, I must be lonelier than I thought._ He shrugs. “It bothers me sometimes - I think I had a few of them, but I can’t tell what’s meant to stick.” 

Steve still looks at him with concern. It feels genuine, like the rest of him has in their brief encounter. “Care to run them by me? See if anything fits right?”  
“Uh - I dunno - James sometimes feels right,” he says. “Then there’s Bucky, makes me sound like I’m some kid’s pet squirrel or something - and I don’t now if you speak any other language but sometimes I think a word in another language sounds right.”  
“Standard continental European conversational words and phrases,” Steve says, glancing over at the maps in the case. “Enough to get by abroad during the war without a phrasebook. What is it?”  
“зима,” James-Bucky-зима-can’t-remember says in what’s likely a botched accent, curious.  
Steve’s face screws up in thought. He runs the tip of his tongue over his teeth, before something clicks and he says, “Russian - winter, in Russian,” helpfully. 

_Well, that doesn’t help me at all._ “I don’t feel very much like a winter,” he says. He frowns. “Who the hell names their kid after the cold, anyway?”  
“Dunno, but can I give you my opinion?” Steve asks carefully. “You’re right about the winter - and James seems too formal for you. I know you said it sounds like a squirrel -”  
“It’s alright,” he grins, “I was half-joking. I think I might be able to get behind it.” 

Steve extends his hand again, very formal but also smiling so hard it looks his face is fit to break. “Pleasure to meet you on this plane, then.”  
There’s static between their hands again when Bucky - _Bucky,_ he tries it on - shakes hands with him again. “Pleasure’s all mine, Captain Rogers. Call me Bucky.”

 

~**~

 _So what’s a ghost like you doing in a place like this?_ is what Bucky really wants to ask. Instead, he can’t get over how incandescently happy Rogers - _Just Steve, please,_ he’d said, grimacing - at how happy Steve is, walking up and down the halls with him until dawn breaks through the enormous windows of the entrance hall. Steve’s all questions, it’s endearing even if Bucky can’t answer most of them. 

“How long have you been here?” is one of the first things he asks earnestly, ignoring the impressive articulated dinosaur skeleton in favor of playing 20 Questions. That’s the thing Bucky’s quickly learning about Steve - he’s more earnest than a boyscout, his face so frank and open Bucky thinks Steve might be pulling one over on him at first.  
“Dunno,” Bucky says. He scuffs his foot against the tiled floor. It doesn’t make a sound. “Since....” He pauses, trying to find the right time marker. “See the security guard station, near the entrance? I remember when they didn’t have metal detectors at the doors. I remember the day those security monitors were upgraded from black and white to colour, and then from color to high-def. And then I remember when the building had its first wireless network installed, but not exactly when that was.” 

Steve whistles low between his teeth, impressed. “Wireless? Like, radio?” 

That’s the second thing about Steve that Bucky learns quickly: His grasp of technology is severely limited. Bucky feels he’s got a leg up on most other dead folks, he’s in a place where he gets to watch the progress of tech advance every day - not in an exhibit, but in the rapidly-evolving phones and computers and tablets visitors and staff utilize. The only reason he knows how a computer works is because he spent quite a bit of time floating over an intern’s shoulder while she installed the first data bank at the Institute.

“Coming here is a lot like waking up,” Steve says, as they watch the morning guard unlock the doors and the first stream of guests trickle in, holding tickets and maps. “Archives were....well, they were boring, so it felt like sleeping most of the time. I didn’t think to wander far, because it just would have been old broken machines and files I wouldn’t have gotten anyway. You lose track of time like that. I’ve forgotten a lot.”  
“I don’t know what time even is any more,” Bucky laughs, shrugging. “And I still don’t know who I am. But look, you’ve got a banner with your name on it.” 

Indeed, overnight the new _Science, Media, and Technology in Wartime America banner_ , complete with recoloured propaganda stills of Steve’s face in the foreground, has been unfurled over the main entrance. Steve’s pale face colours as soon as Bucky points it out. “Gosh - it’s not that big of a deal,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.  
“Dedication ceremony is half past noon,” Bucky grins. “Want to be there for your inauguration?”  
“If we’ve got the time,” Steve says seriously, and Bucky doesn’t know he’s joking until his face splits with a grin. 

The American History hall starts filling out at eleven in the morning; the crowd seems even heavier than usual, and Bucky notices a lot more old folks than usual. Of course, there’s the younger crowd, but by twelve the hall is a sea of people pressed up against the velvet-roped stanchions around Steve’s exhibit, and Bucky sees a _lot_ of veteran caps, old men in uniform with canes and on motorized scooters. By twelve-fifteen, it’s wall to wall people, and to get anywhere near the front Bucky relies on his favourite trick. 

“Uh - what -” Steve looks at him questioningly when he backs up, takes a running start, and volleys himself off the end of a bench. He’s not quite flying, but he certainly remains airborne longer than he would in a flesh-and-blood body. 

“Never tried this before, Captain?” Bucky teases, from where on level with the hanging signs. On the ground, Steve looks utterly perplexed.  
“Can’t say I have,” he calls up. “I thought the floating ghost thing was just a cliche.”  
Bucky laughs, propelling himself off of the signs. They sway minutely, as if they’ve been hit by the ventilation. “Come on and give it a shot, it’s a hoot.” 

But Steve stays very firmly on the ground, edging between live bodies and sidling over to the side of the hall where there’s cracks of space for him to slip through, and finally catches up to where Bucky has grounded himself behind the velvet ropes. “That looked swell,” he said wistfully.  
There’s an electric crackle between them when Bucky nudges him with an elbow. “Then why didn’t you?”  
“Too many people,” Steve says, glancing around at the crowd around them. 

Precisely at twelve-thirty Director Fury appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and steps up to the microphone. The audience’s amiable chatter falls abruptly silent - Bucky sees why, he’s an intimidating guy, someone you wouldn’t expect to direct one of the foremost educational institutes on the East Coast.

“Who’s the fella with the patch?” Steve murmurs to Bucky.  
“Guy in charge," Bucky replies, not bothering to keep his voice down - Steve looks a little startled, but it’s not like anyone can hear them. 

“Captain Steve Rogers,” Director Fury begins without preamble. “A name no one in his time thought would be synonymous with the American War Effort, now synonymous with the Armed Forces of his day, both on the home front and in the European Theater.  
“Yet the man the biographies now call _Captain America_ was a dark horse running, and would not have tipped the scales in favour of Allied Forces if it weren’t for the considerable scientific advancements made by New York-based scientist, inventor, and arms developer, Howard Stark.” 

“You didn’t tell me you were _famous_ ,” Bucky grins, and Steve shushes him. 

“The two were what you might call an odd couple,” Fury continues, to amused titters from the crowd. “But there’s no doubt that history is made when two opposites come together in friendship - and in collaboration. Within this exhibit that we are honored to open to you today, through the carefully curated and generously donated -” Bucky looks to his left and sees Coulson, eyebrows raised but smiling, “items displayed, you are able to witness the fruits of this collaboration. Mercurial though it was at times, that collaboration laid the foundations for two icons of American valour and ingenuity. We'd like to take this moment to thank the Stark Foundation for Public Education for joining us in creating this exhibit, but more importantly, to join us in remembering the man who almost singlehandedly turned the tides of the war. "For our Stark Tech Through the Ages exhibit, please visit our Science and Technology complex. As further introduction, I now give the stand, as it were, to First Sergeant Theodore Rennoll of the US Army, retired."

A ripple of polite applause circulates through the room. An old man, hunched over in his uniform and leaning heavily on his walker, slowly makes his way up to the microphone to a smatter of polite applause. His hands tremble as he pulls his notecards out of a pocket. When he speaks the room goes very quiet. 

“Captain Rogers didn’t know me, but I knew him," he says. His voice is quiet, not feeble, but hushed with age and memory. "Not as a hero, but before. Back then I was only ever an office grunt with four long years of engineering behind me, fetching coffee and fresh plotting paper for Howard Stark and his team. I wasn’t building the machines, I was fueling the machines that built the machines that I thought would win the war.” Quietly, the Sergeant chuckled.  
“I wasn’t there with Captain Rogers when he stormed the first base and freed those POWs, whose numbers included my future brother-in-law. I wasn’t even there with Captain Rogers he went on his first bonds-selling tour across the Eastern seaboard. The Steven Rogers I knew first was the small one who people dismissed. One time, meeting with Stark and his scientists, he asked me if I might please get him a cup of coffee and I almost wrote him off completely, told him to get his own, I’m a busy guy and have real work to do. I’m glad it was more than my hide was worth that I didn’t.”

Bucky risks a glance at his new friend and isn’t sure if it’s possible that Steve could ever have been described as _small_. Clearly, it’s his turn to ask 20 questions, but he’ll respect Steve's unreadable expression and wait until the speakers are done.

Sergeant Rennoll shuffles through his cards, clearing his throat hoarsely. “I was abroad, in London, with a branch of the SSR when Rogers’ plane went down. I remember hearing his final communications. I remember the way Stark’s entire team of scientists couldn’t look at each other for weeks afterward. ‘We’ve failed him,’ they kept saying years later when recovery efforts failed. ‘We’ve failed our country,’ they’d say, ‘but more importantly we failed him.’”  
“In my mind, I don’t think they thought they’d failed the poster boy war-hero Rogers that we’d come to know. I think we all thought we were failing the scrawny Steve Rogers, shorter than my sister when I first met him, who had more courage and honour than all of the men I’d see coming home from the front. Even when he was the little guy, Rogers was the sort of man you’d want at your back.” 

_Poor Steve_ , Bucky realizes suddenly. If Steve was really as little as the good Sergeant is saying, and grew into what he is - tall and built and handsome, but still utterly conscious of the space he takes up between living bodies in the audience....well, maybe it’s no wonder someone so conscious of his body has never tried to drift like a sheet of tissue paper, weightless and carefree. 

The Sergeant flicks to his last index card. “It was only after thinking about Rogers and what he did that I decided, I’d had enough of fetching coffee and paper, not when I could be out doing something useful. The war was a mopping-up effort at that point. I joined up, was sent off to Japan, then Korea, then Vietnam. I served dutifully, though I can now clear my conscience by saying that I was not always certain I was serving honorably.”

He pauses, then says, “Because Steve Rogers, for most folks of my generation, was the benchmark of serving honourably that we could measure ourselves up to. And I think in some way he continues to be.” 

Theodore Rennoll looks up from his cards and for a moment the emotion is written so raw on his face it hurts to look at him. Bucky feels it like an electric pulse. He looks back at the display cases, where the artifacts sit innocuous and unreal. “Today I hope you will join me in saluting Captain Rogers. Not his memory but all he’s done for us. For what he continues to do today.” 

The room is dead quiet. Theodore Rennoll pockets his notes and slowly walks back to his group, and for a moment or two the audience is too stunned, too overcome to applaud or cheer. Finally someone starts applauding, and the whole room joins in as one. Bucky joins them, despite his applause being silent. It doesn’t even stir the air. 

Steve looks up at him from where he’d been gazing steadily at his feet, eyes bright. Bucky catches his eye and flashes him a little smile.  
“Well that uh.” Steve clears his throat as another speaker, a representative from Stark Industries, starts talking. “That jogs some memories.”  
“I’ll say.”  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says. His face is blazing.  
“Huh?” Bucky starts. “What for?”  
“I, uh. I didn’t mean to make this all about me,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Bucky stares at him. He says, “You’re too modest for a guy with his own museum exhibit.” 

The laugh is out Steve before he can even help it. “You think?”

“I know,” Bucky says. He knows there’s no museum display for him, in fact, he can’t even remember what he’s tied down to within these exhibits. He’s not shy about it, though. 

“You’re something else, Buck.” Steve’s still flushed with embarrassment but it might also be camaraderie, and it’s just testament to the kind of guy he is that Bucky doesn’t slug him for the sudden nickname. “C’mon, let me look at what they’re saying about me before the crowd gets too thick."

They’ve only known each other for hours, and it’s a little disturbing because it feels like they’ve known each other for years. Not that Bucky has any basis for comparison, but talking is fast and easy with Steve. Teasing comes easy, and he gets it served back. It’s easy, easy as dying, and the most fun he’s had in a long time. 

The speeches end. Coulson aids his curators in taking up the stanchions, and then they flee from the flood of people jockeying for space in front of the cases. Bucky steps into the shadows next to an emergency exit door, and watches the madness.  
Captain Steve Rogers glances back to the aging Sergeant Rennoll, stands a little straighter, and salutes. 

Of course, it goes unseen.

 


End file.
